


From Here, It's Possible

by wellthatsood



Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Nobody is Dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 17:00:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11445174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatsood/pseuds/wellthatsood
Summary: In northwest Texas, two college students with rude personalities and disparate worldviews find they might have more in common than they thought. Maybe.





	From Here, It's Possible

It starts in the stacks—bracketed between authors AK-AR on one side and BA-BL on the other. Fiore stops, rigidly rooted to the spot, as he stares at the table. At his table. At his table in the back of the library, where there are no other tables and no one ever comes back there and there’s never anyone to bother him. At his table, which has someone sitting at it. 

If his bag didn’t weigh so heavily on his shoulder, he had half a mind to turn around and go back to his room and try again later. But it’s midterms. And his bag is heavy. He shifts—feeling the weight of his books and notebooks and laptop straining down on his back—sets his jaw, and makes up his mind. 

In three long strides, he’s closed the distance from the shelves to the table and he’s standing alarmingly close to the guy occupying his seat. His chin touches his chest as he stares directly down at the top of his head. 

To his credit, the other guy barely seems affected by his presence. There’s a sigh. The delicate placement of a pen marking the line in the textbook where he stops reading. The chair scrapes a little against the floor as the guy pushes back and he glances up at Fiore more with his eyes than his head. An impressive feat, given how Fiore has taken to standing as above him as possible. 

“Yeah?” the guy asks. 

“You’re in my seat,” Fiore says through clenched teeth.

The guy stares at him for just a moment longer, a faint crease on his forehead and a purse to his lips, and then his eyes fall and he stares at the other end of the table. There’s a second chair. He looks back up at Fiore meaningfully. 

“But I always sit here.” Right there. In that spot. At that end of the table so his back is to the wall, facing the stacks. He’s never sat in the other chair and he doesn’t want to. The view is all wrong. 

“Well you weren’t when I came in,” the Seat Thief answers, and he picks up his pen and hunches back over his book. 

Fiore doesn’t move. He keeps standing there, hoping to entice the stranger into further conversation. Not that he wants to talk more—he has no idea what else to say—but he hopes that if he just stands there and makes his presence known, it’ll move things along in the direction he’d like. Somehow. 

But the other guy is stubborn. He doesn’t even look up from his textbook as he says, “You can stand there long as you like or you can take that other seat but I’m not movin’.” 

Fiore huffs. Shifts his bag noisily. Walks around the table. Drops his bag with a mighty thud and sits down. He unzips his bag, drops a textbook on the table so it shakes, and stares at the guy. 

Through his anger, it takes Fiore a moment to process that the stranger’s voice is as equally out of place in Texas as his own. He must be an international student as well, and he might be familiar from some student orientation, but Fiore can’t be sure. Thinking back on it, he’s fairly certain he skipped all of those events anyway. 

But it doesn’t matter, because right now, all he can see is the top of his shaved head and his hunched shoulders. That, and the wall behind him. Which is wrong. Because Fiore is supposed to be looking at the neat stacks of books. Not at the blank wall in the back of the library. He can’t concentrate like that, not at all. 

He stands again, abruptly. He grabs his backpack and book in one hand and the back of the chair in the other and it goes swinging around the table with him, until he’s dropped it right beside the other guy and sat down. He throws his stuff on the table, opens his book, and immediately stares down at his work like he’s been focused for hours. 

He doesn’t quite have the guts to look sideways, but he’s fairly certain he can feel the heat from the anger emanating off the other guy in waves. Fiore bites down on the end of his pen, somewhat nervously. 

“What,” the guy begins, his words measured out in anger, “is so _damn_ important about this spot?” 

Fiore takes the pen from his mouth, points it at the bookshelves, returns it to his mouth, and then mumbles around it, “I like facing the shelves.” 

“You’re _kidding_ , right?” 

Fiore’s head gives a tepid shake. “Nice lines,” he elaborates out of the corner of his mouth, still occupying the other side with a pen cap. He makes a quick karate chopping motion with his hand, to represent the neat rows of shelves, and he still hasn’t raised his eyes to the stranger. 

Even if he weren’t too nervous to look, it’d be a difficult task. They’re sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, crammed up alongside one another at the short end of the table. His head doesn’t turn at a perfect ninety-degree angle. 

The stranger scoffs. “ _Oh_ ,” he says, the derision dripping from his voice until it splashes on the table. “Course you are…” he mumbles more to himself. 

“What?” Fiore demands, twisting in his seat and staring down at the close-cropped buzz of the stranger’s hair. 

The stranger taps on Fiore’s textbook—architecture—spread open on the table. “No wonder you’re all—” He makes a show of closing his fist and squeezing it tightly, which Fiore finds rather rude. 

“What d’you study, then?” Fiore asks with a sneer. He scoffs when the stranger answers “Poli Sci.” He sniffs and sits up straighter, flicking a page in his textbook despite not having read a word since sitting down. “As though ‘political science’ is even a science at all.” 

“So now he’s a _linguistics_ major too,” Mr. Political Science mutters to himself, also turning a page with more force than the situation warrants. 

“I’m only saying, it’s not really a proper science, is it? But it’s going around, calling itself a science, when there’s nothing scientific about it at all,” Fiore huffs. He likes things with order, with structure, with rules you could understand. There were no sets of rules you could apply to human behavior. They were so random, so unpredictable. At least Fiore could study physics, could understand how structures worked, could follow laws of the universe that never changed. It made sense, the way he prefers it. 

Not-A-Proper-Science Boy sighs and turns in his chair, throwing his arm over the back of it as he looks Fiore up and down. “Is your asshole always like that? Or does it ever— _occasionally_ —unclench?” he asks coolly, as Fiore’s eyes nearly double in diameter. 

“That’s—it isn’t—I don’t see how that’s any of your business!” Fiore snaps, struggling to overcome his shock to even spit the reply. “It’s _perfectly_ _fine_ , thank you very much.” He sniffs and brackets his head in his hands, turning 110% of his attention to his textbook to avoid the red hot warmth creeping up the back of his neck. _Perfectly fine_ , what a thing to say. 

The rude stranger is smirking at him. He can feel it. He hears a low chuckle and receives a brief thwack in the side as Mr. Political Science turns back to his textbook. They’re a bit too close together for people who have elbows. 

They pass the rest of the time in relative silence. Of course, Fiore is too keenly aware of the noise every time Political Science turns the page. Every swipe of his pen across the page or slight squeak of the chair whenever he shifts his weight seems to tap directly on the inside of Fiore’s skull. He’s hardly focused on his work at all. He’d have better luck going back to his room to study—he could probably kick Pilo out—but Fiore’s stubborn. If he left, if he ceded _his_ table to a stranger, what would that say? No, he’d wait it out. It doesn’t matter that he barely has room for his laptop and that he has to hold himself even stiffer than usual to avoid knocking into his neighbor. He isn’t giving up his spot. It’s the principle of the thing that matters.

In the end, of course, neither of them win the table. The tired work-study student from behind the circulation desk comes around after a few hours, to remind them that the library will be closing “in, like, fifteen minutes, so…”

With a sigh, Fiore saves his work and neatly gathers up his notes. Political Science rubs his eyes on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, yawns, and slams his book closed. They both stand up at the exact same moment. 

They glance at each other. Political Science looks like he’s going to say something. Fiore flings his bag onto his shoulder and walks away as fast as possible before he has the chance.

* * *

 

There are, DeBlanc knows, many different motivations a person could have. Some people act out of obligation or discipline or the need to impress. Some people are motivated to prove themselves and some are motivated by circumstance.

And some are motivated by pure spite.

When the library opens Saturday morning, DeBlanc’s there, ready and waiting. His bag is crammed with every textbook for every class, giving him enough work for midterms to occupy him through the night. He’s got a coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other. Immediately, he heads for the back of the library and sets up camp at the table in the far corner, facing the shelves.

Just for good measure, he drags every chair but his own away from the table and stacks them between the shelves three rows down.

Then, he gets comfortable.

It’s a nice little arrangement, really. Maybe he doesn’t appreciate when _shelves_ make _nice lines_ , but he has caffeine and his headphones. He spends a few good hours tapping along to his music as he takes notes and scribbles flashcards.

It’s just past noon when he feels that looming presence he’s been waiting for. The shadow falls across his book and DeBlanc smirks as he glances up. Last night’s Architecture Asshole is staring down at him with intensely furrowed brow, his mouth moving in words DeBlanc can’t hear over music he plays too loud. But he lets him finish his thought and smiles serenely throughout. Only after a lengthy pause does DeBlanc remove one earbud and say, with all the forced innocence he can muster, “Sorry, didn’t catch that?”

“My. Seat.” The guy’s teeth barely part as he speaks.

“What about it?” DeBlanc’s having a hard time hiding how much he’s enjoying this. He wonders if his tall friend might explode if he keeps it up for much longer.

“You’re _in it_.”

DeBlanc “hmphs” thoughtfully and makes a show of twisting around and looking at the back of the chair. “That’s funny. I don’t see your name anywhere and I’m sitting in it, so it stands to reason, this might actually be _my_ seat.”

The other guy is definitely starting to reach Explosive Levels. His face is flushing red and his hands are balled into tight fists at his side. Not like that worries DeBlanc any. Sure, the guy’s tall, but he’s an absolute toothpick and DeBlanc’s never had trouble holding his own against anyone twice his height.

“What did you do with the other chairs?” he asks through clenched jaw.

DeBlanc takes a long, slurping sip of coffee. The guy’s face seems to twitch at the noise. DeBlanc looks around and frowns thoughtfully. “I don’t see any other chairs.”

“What did you _do_ with them?”

“Well if you’d been here earlier, you’d know. And you’d have this chair. But you weren’t, so you don’t.” And with that, DeBlanc sticks the second earplug bag into his ear, cranks the music to a level that’s surely bad for his eardrums, and turns back to his book. Tall Boy With The Clenched Ass stands there for a while—DeBlanc can see his shadow—but he leaves soon enough. Whether he’s gone for good or gone in search of chairs, DeBlanc doesn’t know, but he honestly hopes it’s the latter. He makes midterms more interesting, at least.

And the tall guy does not disappoint. It takes him a few minutes, but he does find the chairs—or at least, _a_ chair—and drags it back with him. Of course, DeBlanc was prepared for this eventuality and he spent all morning spreading his books over as much of the table as possible. He watches, smug, as Too Tall For His Own Good stares between the table and the stacks, presumably analyzing the “feng shui” of his seat placement.

There’s an almost pained look on his face, and if DeBlanc were a different sort of person, he might feel bad. But he doesn’t. Eventually, the guy settles in the middle of the table, with his chair tilted towards the stacks and his back to DeBlanc. He doesn’t know the guy well enough to guess if his prime motivation is looking at lines or petulantly ignoring DeBlanc. Judging by his major and demeanor, it’s probably the first one, though DeBlanc feels a little hurt that it isn’t the latter. It’s not as much fun, otherwise.

It works, for a while. DeBlanc settles into his studying, Mr. Architecture seems to do the same—despite his incorrect placement at the table—and they manage to coexist without bothering one another. Of course, that alone starts to bother DeBlanc. It shouldn’t, since all he really needs to focus on is passing midterms, but frankly, there’s only so much he can read about the history of economic policy before he starts getting itchy behind his eyelids. He could use another coffee to keep his spirits up, but that would mean getting up from his chair, which isn’t going to happen.

“Hey,” DeBlanc says. His not-so-friendly study buddy does not respond. “Hey.” DeBlanc balls up a flashcard about antitrust policy and chucks it at his head. It gets his attention, though not really in a positive way. DeBlanc has got another textbook on the table with chapters upon chapters of conflict resolution strategies and interpersonal guidelines. He’s sure the author would have some critiques of his methods, but again, that requires DeBlanc to care far more than he currently does.

“What’s your problem?” The other guy whisper-yells through tight lips, DeBlanc’s flashcard sitting squarely in the gutters of his textbook, after bouncing off his head.

“You wanna grab a coffee?” DeBlanc asks, innocently.

It’s worth it just to watch the bewilderment. He sputters for a moment and then, regaining his metaphorical footing, says in a terse tone, “I don’t like coffee.”

Of course he doesn’t. Why would he like any of the things that make life worthwhile? DeBlanc can only assume he also hates everything else on earth that’s beautiful and good—like sunsets, puppies, and Led Zeppelin. He’s probably too busy staring at bookshelves to appreciate a good bass line.

“What would you like, then? Lunch? A beer? Another stick to add the collection you’ve got shoved where the sun don’t shine?” DeBlanc offers with faux-sincerity. It might be a little mean, but he enjoys watching the stranger blush.

“What _is it_ with you and your anal fixation?” his table-mate snaps, slamming his hand down on its surface. “Can’t get mine out of your mind, is that it?”

DeBlanc opens his mouth to respond, but only a tight noise escapes, and he’s left with his mouth hanging slightly ajar, staring. Alright. Fine. Touché. You win this round and all that, but DeBlanc figures it’s still got to be at least 5-to-1 in his favor.

Architecture’s face breaks into a bright smile and he chuckles to himself, a perfect portrait of self-satisfaction. “That was rather good, wasn’t it?” he smirks, bright blue eyes sparkling. “See? I know all that—that _subconscious_ and feelings rubbish. I took Intro to Pysch. Nearly failed, but I took it.”

“You know, that surprises me. Here I thought that’d be your best subject, seein’ as you seem like such a natural people-person,” DeBlanc says dryly, though even his lips quirk into a smile.

“Sandwich?” the guy replies, and it takes DeBlanc a moment to remember his offer.

“Right! Sure, yeah. Grab a bit of lunch, come back for the afternoon?” Part of DeBlanc is glad that he can get up and stretch his legs, get something to eat, and still feel that he hasn’t compromised all of his personal integrity by ceding the spot he claimed. Another part of DeBlanc is really wondering why he thought it would be a good idea to get lunch with a guy who has the conversational skills of a damp mushroom.

They pack their things in silence—of course—and head for a small on-campus cafe that accepts their meal plans. They don’t talk much on the way. DeBlanc checks his phone; the other guy mostly stares at his own feet. Probably has to make sure that his enormously lengthy legs don’t get tangled underneath him or something.

Because he really is _very_ tall. DeBlanc can’t help but think about it, as they reach the cafe and he waits in line behind him. It wasn’t as noticeable, when he was sitting. Anyone looks tall when you’re sitting. But now, DeBlanc’s wondering how anybody can be that tall, as he looks up at the guy’s head, a good half a foot above him. That’s just rude, really.

Tall, Pale, and Silent orders a grilled ham and cheese sandwich, muttering his name to the cashier, swiping his student ID, and hurrying towards the sandwich pickup like he’s afraid DeBlanc might suddenly attack. DeBlanc watches him go with one brow quirked. That might just be par for the course with him, it seems.

DeBlanc orders his usual and goes to join him in silence. It’s awkward, though the other guy is a strangely comfortable presence behind him, solid and _tall_ even in his stiff silence. It beats sitting in those hard library chairs for hours on end, at least, and DeBlanc switches from foot to foot, trying to stretch his legs a little while they wait.

Behind the counter, a student is holding a sandwich like a bomb, staring down at the sharpie handwriting on its wrapper. She opens and closes her mouth, squinting.

DeBlanc sighs; he’s more than used to this. 

“It’s mine,” he says, at the same time as his Library Buddy steps forward and murmurs, “That’s for me.”

They turn to look at one another, both with a hand outstretched towards the counter.

The girl between them pipes up with, “It’s for, uh, Fye—um? Fyo—”

“ _Fiore_ ,” he sighs, grabbing the sandwich. He clutches it tight in both hands, eyes downturned. “You gonna laugh at me?” he quietly asks the sandwich.

A moment later, the girl behind the counter calls out, “BLT for… Deh-blanche?”

Fiore’s head shoots up from his somber examination of his own fingernails. There’s this look in his eye and he tilts his head and watches as DeBlanc grabs his sandwich and an aggressive fistful of more napkins than anyone could ever need.

“It’s DeBlanc,” he explains and Fiore smiles.

“Pass me some of those?” he asks, gesturing to DeBlanc’s napkin stash.

On the way back to the library, they talk. Not about much, but it’s hot in Texas and there’s always something to say about the weather. They complain about being tired, about having too many tests to study for, the usual conversation that passes between students. DeBlanc has questions— _how’d we both end up out here in Texas_ , _where are you from_ , _what’s your name mean_ , and _okay but seriously dude, do you ever chill_ —but maybe another time.

“You know,” DeBlanc confesses, as they climb the stairs towards the library. “I only asked about lunch ‘cause I figured if I went alone, you’d take that chair by the time I got back.”

Fiore looks at him, eyebrows dipping and his mouth pressing into a tight line. For a moment, DeBlanc wonders if he’s ruined their delicate truce by admitting his scheme. It had seemed so important half an hour ago.

“Well,” Fiore says, very calmly, “I s’pose I’ll just have to take it back now, won’t I?”

“You what—”

But it’s too late, because Fiore is taking the stairs three at a time with his _enormous_ legs. He’s already at the top and DeBlanc is jogging hopelessly after him, as Fiore disappears around the corner at a brisk stroll that far outpaces even DeBlanc’s most impressive power walk.

“Oh, you fuckin’ antelope,” he mutters. He’s _really_ regretting cramming every textbook he owns into his bag, as well, as it cuts in the skin of neck. His legs are moving as fast as they can, while he thinks through all retorts he’ll say when he finally makes it to the library. He’s huffing his way through the shelves, rounds the corner, and—

Plows face-first into Fiore’s back. He’s standing rooted to the spot. DeBlanc peers around him and sees it. Some kid. Some kid in _their_ spot. The nerve, doesn’t he know there’s a battle raging over that territory? You can’t just waltz on into a war zone and claim it for yourself.

“Hold this,” DeBlanc says, dropping his bag into Fiore’s hands without waiting for a response. He strolls over to the kid, looking over his books, hands in his pockets as he casually peruses, winding his way farther into the kid’s personal space. The standard college writing textbook, _Principles of Operations Management_ , something about biology. Looks like a freshman. Probably is a freshman. Has that sort of freshman whiff about him, the aroma of fear mixed with trying too hard.

“Table’s reserved,” DeBlanc says, curt and glaring.

The kid looks up. “It was open when I got here.”

“Look,” DeBlanc says, putting his hand fake-good-naturedly on the back of the chair and lowering his voice, “I’m sure you don’t realize this, seeing as its your first midterms and daddy’s paying for your tuition and all, but this table was reserved and the library has a very strict policy about this sort of thing. You’ll have to move, alright?”

The freshman stares between DeBlanc and Fiore and sighs, gathering his things into his arms. “Alright, fine. Whatever.” They exchange smirks as the kid heads off in search of another table. DeBlanc pulls the chair out, and then goes to sit opposite, leaving it open for Fiore, who’s back to staring again. He seems to do a lot of that.

“What, seriously?” Fiore asks, hesitantly sitting down in his spot.

“Just this once. But I beat you here tomorrow, that chair’s mine, you got it?” DeBlanc says as Fiore pushes his bag across the table to him.

“Seems fair,” Fiore agrees, as they dig out their books. They work again in silence, mostly. DeBlanc drums his pencil against the table as he reads, occasionally scratching the tip of his head with it. He’s about a chapter along before he notices the way Fiore’s got the tips of his fingers jammed in his ears. DeBlanc sighs, shoves the pen in the dip between the pages, and switches to jostling his foot instead.

He’s too tall and too clenched, but hey, company is company.

The next day, when DeBlanc arrives at the library, there’s Fiore—already settled in his spot. There’s a fresh cup of coffee waiting at the other chair.


End file.
